


Nemesis Suite

by Djinn



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djinn/pseuds/Djinn
Summary: I know not everyone dug Star Trek; Nemesis but there were a lot of really interesting themes to explore, if you had a mind to.  I offer these three standalone stories, brought together here.  If you find the first one too thinky, move on: the next two ware more traditional.





	1. Echoes and Voices

I look in the mirror and I see him. I see both of them. Shinzon. And Locutus. They live, warped and twisted and always there. On the other side of the mirror. On the other side of my soul. They will never leave me. They are me.

I close my eyes. I don't want to look at the reflection. Don't want to think about Shinzon impaled on that rod, pulling himself closer to me. The sound of flesh tearing, the smell of blood, the feel of his breath—my breath on my cheek. Such hatred. Such passion. The echo he called himself, but he was vivid, more vivid perhaps than I am...than I have ever been. More alive. His hatred—for me, for humans, for Earth—animated him, gave him the energy to go on even as his body destroyed itself. He would bring down an entire planet, even if it was the last thing he did. And it would have been.

I see Shinzon's face in my dreams. He stares at me with red eyes and nostrils flaring with the pain he refuses to acknowledge, and I stare back. Unable to move. Then I see his face suddenly tear open as a Borg implant erupts out of the wound, another rips through his chest. An assimilation tube emerges from his hand, a hand he holds out to me. As the tube pierces my artificial heart, I hear in my mind the voice of the Collective, "Welcome home, Locutus."

"Welcome home, brother," Shinzon laughs, even as his tortured skin changes to the mottled gray of the Borg. "We are ever one."

It is a nightmare I have had since the Collective took me. But in the past, it was my face that the Borg hardware pierced through, my hand that reached out for my friends and assimilated them as they screamed. I thought it was the worst nightmare possible. That I might still have Locutus inside me, that the Borg had not been driven out as completely as Beverly thought.

But now the nightmare is worse. Locutus may have always been inside me. The destroyer that Locutus was, the architect of Earth's destruction—of the genocide of the human race—perhaps that monster wasn't brought by the Borg? Perhaps he was inside me already? The potential for him carried within my DNA. I looked at Shinzon and I saw Locutus—and I saw myself. Was I a killer? Was I the driven, hate-filled man I saw crawling inch by tortured inch on that stake? Was I Locutus all along?

It paralyzed me then, as the seconds went by, and I stood and stared at Shinzon's body kept upright only by the heavy metal rod I had put in his path. His body nearly touched me, would have touched me if I hadn't pressed myself against the wall. I could not move, could not make myself go find my phaser. I just stared as the computer counted down to annihilation for me and for all those I held dear. I stood and waited, and wondered which of us was indeed the echo. What if I was? What if the voice was meant not to speak in the measured tones of a diplomat, but in the strident commands of a dictator? What if I was meant to usher in Armageddon? What if Jean-Luc was a fluke and they were the real voice?

I would have stayed that way forever. Catatonic, frozen in self-doubt, in horror at what I had come up against, at having to kill my echo even as I realized the sound of his voice would never leave me. I was weak—or perhaps I was strong enough to want to die. It might have been better. Who knows what the next manifestation of the destroyer could look like? Who knows how many might die under the hands of one that echoes my soul?

But I did not die. My friends did not perish. Most of them did not perish—one man did. Man—I use the term accidentally, then deliberately. Man. Data the man. Data had become a man to me. Like some fine, tall form of Pinocchio that the blue fairy had turned into a real boy. And until that moment I had not realized it. As he slapped the emergency transporter on me, I could not find words to tell the man before me to stop, to beg him to stop. If I had, what would I have said? Would it have been along the lines of: "You go back, Data, the universe needs you more"? Would I have resisted, if I hadn't been so weak? Would I have thought of a way to save him?

Data thought I was worth saving. I must make sure that he was right. But how do I know that I can do that? How do I know that Shinzon isn't inside me right now? Isn't working with Locutus? Both of them whispering to the part of me that sleeps in the deepest, darkest corner of my soul. I can feel Locutus now, closer than I've felt him since those days after I was freed from the Collective. I hear his voice inside me. I hear the voice of the Queen, lulling me into that fugue state from which only evil will emerge. I must resist.

Shinzon said it. Resistance is futile.

But I must resist. And the Queen is dead in any case. Or at least my Queen. Somewhere another lives on. I don't want to think about that. I tell myself that she lives only in my mind—that the voice of the Collective sings only in my mind. Nothing more than the echo of what once was. Shinzon was the echo of what never was. The life I didn't lead. The hardships I never knew. He was me without the ease. My life turned upside down and colored black. And he hated me for it. Resented me. But he hid it well...at first. And at first, I was captivated by him. Fascinated. Intrigued. How vain I was. I thought it was me. And it was. Just not the me I wanted it to be. 

I suddenly understand Will's reaction to Tom Riker. The strangeness of coming up against yourself and finding that you are not quite what you expected. The need to reach out, while at the same time feeling an odd repugnance that colors every reaction and makes you want to draw back. You speak and your own voice answers. Only not my voice, for I didn't grow up in the Dilithium mines, I didn't breathe the corrosive vapor for so many years. I didn't live with broken bones; with a face so battered it bore little resemblance to my own. I did not live that life. 

But what if I had?

The echo was deeper than the voice. More strident. Louder. And never louder than when he whispered our death, as he pulled himself to me. His voice rushed over me, overcame me. I could do nothing except stand mute as I watched my evil twin die. My evil self. Myself. I watched myself die. I killed myself. I killed. I am a killer.

I am not a killer. 

Deanna is worried about me. She can sense the way my thoughts turn these days. She comes to me and urges me to talk. "I know what his touch felt like," she says. "I can still feel him in my mind." I had hoped she was free of him. But her eyes are haunted and she has lost the spark of joy she used to exude. She is trying though, for Will's sake, for her marriage's sake. She tries to resurrect the old Deanna and to some extent she must be succeeding because Will acts as if nothing is wrong. She doesn't want to worry him, so she comes to me instead. She comes to me and talks and tells me what she feels because we share the fear that Shinzon will be with us forever. 

I think, in time, the residue he left inside her mind will fade. I think she will lose the terrible burden of his touch. And I envy her for I think that I will not. For how can I? His touch inside me is not foreign; his touch inside me is familiar. It is the touch of my own hand, my own mind, my own soul. It is the cold, hard sensation of the mirror when you lean your face against it and know that you touch something that is both the same and the opposite as your own face. When you get that close, you can feel everything, but you can't see anything, you can't make out the details. 

I look out the viewport at the space dock and wonder when I will pull away from the mirror enough to gain perspective and again make out the features of my echo without feeling this sense of dread and resignation. I hope that I will someday be able to look in the mirror and see Jean-Luc Picard and not Shinzon...and not Locutus. 

But until that time, I try to envision Data. I close my eyes and imagine how he must have looked when he destroyed the Thalaron weapon and the Scimitar with it. Cool, serene, emotionless, and underneath perhaps there was a spark of resentment, a moment of yearning for the life he was sacrificing. I imagine in my mind that he waited till the computer had nearly reached zero before firing, that he wanted to squeeze out every possible second left to him. That he did not want to end his life at all. I imagine that Data spent his last moment not wanting to die. I try to tell myself he didn't know the meaning of despair. I wonder if that's true.

I asked B-4 the other day if he understood the nature of sacrifice. He gave me the sweet confused look that he has worn since Data died. He does not understand. He may never understand. I have to accept that. But somewhere in my heart, I want to believe he can become what Data was. That he can become more noble, more a man than the childish machine that I visit daily. I have to believe that it is his destiny to be more than the echo.

Just as I struggle to be more like the voice he is modeled on. More like the man who believed in me enough to risk everything to save me, to save us all. I push back the despair I feel and try to be useful. I walk down the hall and smile and nod and pretend. I make believe I am happy and every now and then, I am. I make believe that I look forward to the future Data gave me, and every now and then, I do.

And then I look in the mirror.


	2. Collateral Damage

The ship creaked and groaned like a ruined thing as Beverly Crusher shifted uneasily in bed, trying to find a position that was comfortable. She closed her eyes, realized that she was clenching her fists and let them go in an attempt to relax. Her mind would not still; she kept rehashing all that had happened since they'd been sent to Romulan space.

She was worried about Jean-Luc. He'd waved her away when she'd tried to examine him. Had told her he would come to her when the crisis was over. But he hadn't come to her yet, and she wondered if he ever would. Shinzon was dead, the threat to Earth had been put off, the ship was limping home to space dock. The crisis was over as far as she could see, and still he didn't come.

With a tired sigh, she forced herself out of bed. "Computer, location of Captain Picard."

"Captain Picard is in his quarters."

She dressed slowly, her uniform bunching and sticking as she pulled it on as if it and her body were unwilling to go where her mind was directing them. But she'd been to Jean-Luc's quarters a thousand times. There was no danger there. Just an unfinished story that never seemed to want to be concluded. She and Jean-Luc had spent the better part of a decade dancing around each other without ever coming close enough to touch. It was how things were between them. If she was interested, he was with someone else. If he pursued her, it was a time that Beverly wasn't looking in his direction. Irony—or maybe fate—had a terribly mean sense of humor. She wasn't sure, and it didn't matter now anyway. She needed to talk to him because he needed to talk to her, or to someone, and she didn't think he was letting anyone in. It was time she acted more like a CMO and less like his friend. It was time he talked. Mind made up, she headed out of her quarters and down the hall.

##

Geordi stood in the lab, staring at B-4. He had turned the android back on but left him immobilized, not adjusting the settings Data had programmed in. 

B-4 looked at him, waiting for instructions.

"Again," Geordi ordered. 

"Here Kitty-Kitty. Spot, come here." 

Geordi knew the cat was somewhere in the lab. He'd followed her down here when she'd bolted from Data's quarters. Geordi had been worried about her, afraid that she hadn't been fed or that she might be afraid. He should have left well enough alone. The cat had been waiting for an opportunity to escape.

He'd been chasing her ever since. She'd somehow ended up behind him, because when he opened the door to the lab, unsure exactly why he was going in there, she had run in, brushing his legs as she headed for the far side of the lab. 

"Again," he told B-4, listening for any rustle or mewl that might tell him where she had gone. There was nothing.

"Will we find Spot?" B-4 asked. He had a tendency to ask questions like that. Data would have estimated the probability of finding the animal in different places at different times and the level of damage the cat would be likely to inflict on the rescuer. B-4 just asked his stupid little questions. 

And it irritated Geordi. "Call her again."

B-4 complied. His voice, so like Data's, got on Geordi's nerves to the point that he wanted to rush over and adjust the android's vocal patterns. Make him less like Data.

It wasn't fair that his voice could evoke Data. Not now. Not when Data was gone. Not when Geordi had helped Data die.

"Call her again," he said tightly, as he began to make another pass through the lab.

##

Worf sat silently in the chair he had pulled up in front of the viewscreen. His mind strayed, as it often did, to Jadzia. He knew that he should let go, but he couldn't. Normally, even though he tried to remember her as she had been—vital, uninhibited, alive in her love for him—he too often could only recall the way she had looked as she lay dead. The somber expression on a face that usually smiled. The coldness of the body that had warmed him so many nights. 

But tonight, he could remember her alive. His mind refused to dredge up her corpse, instead providing memories of Risa, of sparring on the holodeck, of the time he'd chosen to save her rather than carry out his mission. Jadzia. His love. His wife. Alive in his memories...finally.

He shifted in his chair. Perhaps the pain of her passing was not so severe because he was surrounded by the pain of others now. The senior staff was drowning in it as they mourned the passing of Data.

Worf grieved for Data, but only lightly. He had died with honor. He had saved them all. His death had much meaning—much significance. He would not need a posthumous victory to get into Sto-Vo-Kor. If androids were allowed in that place? Perhaps they had their own version? Worf did not know. 

And to be honest, he did not care. He was just glad to not feel alone in the crowd. To know that on this crippled, valiant ship, he was not the only one dealing with loss.

He suspected that was very selfish of him, but the thought didn't bother him as he lost himself in memories of the way the Risan sun had shone on Jadzia's skin.

##

Deanna lay next to Will, fighting the desperate urge to claw her way out from beneath his arm. An arm she would have considered reassuringly possessive and sheltering a few days ago. A lifetime ago. She shuddered, and tried to ignore the feeling of being trapped, focusing instead on tuning out the nearly overwhelming cascade of emotions that was assailing her from all over the ship. The emotions of the crew were strong as they dealt with battle injuries and the aftermath of fear and anxiety that the combat had provoked. She could feel the grief of crewmen who had watched their friends fall as the ship has been hit over and over, who had seen colleagues sucked into deep space when the hull had been breached. She fought to keep the pain at arms length and succeeded. But another grief slipped by her controls—the pain she felt as her friends mourned Data. A pain she couldn't resist as successfully, for she was more attuned to her friends and felt their pain more easily. And they were all in pain.

As was the man beside her, even though he slept. His dreams were tortured and his arm tightened around her, sending another wave of claustrophobia through her.

He is not Shinzon, she repeated to herself as if it were a mantra. He is not Shinzon, not the Viceroy either. They are not in my mind.

But she could still hear their haunting laughter. She could still feel the lingering touch of their minds. She felt dirty. And she was scared. Because when Will had made frantic love to her, when he had tried to forget all that had happened in the familiar act of sharing his body with her, she hadn't been able to tell who was with her. She'd looked up and it had been Will, until he changed to Shinzon, then the Viceroy. She'd closed her eyes, willing herself not to tense up, trying to pretend that she was enjoying the sex. But she hadn't enjoyed it.

She wondered if she would ever enjoy it again. And as she did, anger filled her. The same raw, deadly anger that had allowed her to find the Viceroy's mind and ultimately Shinzon's ship. The same rage that had helped her drive the _Enterprise_ into the _Scimitar_ , barely paying attention to the natural urge to turn away, avert the collision. She had wanted to smash them, wanted to destroy everything about them. She had thought that once they were dead, they would leave her alone.

She had been wrong. 

Will rolled away from her, and Deanna sighed in relief. She moved slowly to the very edge of the bed and closed her eyes. She had to invoke every Betazoid mental discipline she knew before the emotions inside her head ceased pounding her. But the voices of Shinzon and his Viceroy father kept whispering relentlessly.

##

Geordi saw a flash of orange and white and grabbed madly for the cat. With an angry yowl, Spot stabbed at him, her sharp claws leaving long gashes on his hand, gashes that soon welled up red as they started to bleed.

As Geordi stared at his hand, he noticed it was shaking, shaking hard and then he realized that he was shaking all over. He couldn't see very well, and he blinked furiously. "Come on, Spot. Help me out here," he said in a broken whisper. "I promised Data I'd take care of you."

"When is Data coming back?" B-4 asked from the other side of the lab.

Geordi looked up at him slowly. Through the haze of tears, he could almost pretend that his friend was standing there. That Data was back and everything would be all right and Geordi could stop chasing this cat he didn't even like and could get back to living and wouldn't have to feel this pain that was threatening to tear him apart. 

"He's not coming back," he finally said, spitting the words out as if they were stuck in his teeth. "He's dead. He's dead and he's not coming back."

The android blinked once, then said softly. "I do not understand."

Geordi pushed himself up, strode angrily to B-4. "Why don't you understand? You're just like him, aren't you? You have his memories. I know he gave you those. Yet you're useless. You're nothing like him. You look like him, and you sound like him, but you're not him. And you never will be. And even if you could be, it wouldn't be the same. Because I had years with him and now they're all gone as if they never existed! And you know why? Because I helped kill him."

If B-4 could have moved, Geordi believed the android would have flinched away. But he stood immobile, staring back at him. "Why did you kill him?" he finally asked.

Geordi sank down to the floor, put his head in his hands. "He wanted to save Captain Picard. It never occurred to me that only one of them could come back. I thought Data would come back with him. If he'd held on to him...they could have come back together. That's what I kept telling myself. But it wasn't true. And I should have known that as I opened the airlock for him. I should have known that I was helping him go to his death." Geordi looked up at the android. "Or maybe I did. Maybe I just didn't want to admit it."

"I do not understand."

With a sigh, Geordi nodded. "I know you don't, B-4. And it's unfair of me to expect you to. It's just that you look so much like him, and I miss him already. He was my best friend, and I never got to say goodbye." 

The android said nothing, and Geordi stared at him, trying not to see Data, trying to see B-4 for himself. But it was impossible. He looked too much like his friend.

"They're going to ask me to work on you, I bet. They'll want to see if we can resurrect Data." Geordi shook his head. "I don't think I want that. I don't think I could bear that. Either way, having him come back or not having him come back no matter how much we tried." Geordi rubbed at his eyes. "It's nothing against you, B-4. And maybe someday you'll understand. But I just don't think I can do this again."

He reached over to turn off B-4, and the android asked, "What about Spot?" It was an eerie imitation of Data. 

"She'll find her way home. When she's ready." Geordi flipped the switch and B-4's face went slack. Turning to the door, Geordi saw Spot waiting patiently for him. As he scooped the cat up, she didn't fight him, just settled down in his arms and reached up to lick his neck. "He's not coming back, girl." She mewed softly and he swallowed a lump in his throat. "Come on, let's get you moved into my quarters." Without another look at B-4, Geordi walked out of the lab.

##

Beverly stood in front of Jean-Luc's door, her hand poised to ring the chime but something held her back. What did she think was going to happen? What did she want to happen? He was hurting. He would need to reach out. But was that what she wanted? A battered, grieving man in her arms? 

Not that she didn't want to help him. She loved him too much not to want to make it better for him. But would he choose her, if he weren't in such pain? 

Then she laughed bitterly at herself. He hadn't chosen her yet. He might not. As his doctor, she needed to see him, to make sure he was fit for duty.

She rang the chime.

"Come." The door opened.

She walked through the living area and finally saw him standing in the shadows, in the space where bedroom began and bathroom ended. "Beverly." He didn't sound surprised. He didn't sound much of anything.

"Jean-Luc. Are you all right?"

He nodded. Then he looked back into the bathroom. "A mirror can tell us so much about ourselves."

"You have to allow for distortion," she said as she walked into the bedroom. "And it shows us our opposite."

"Does it? Does it really?" Something in his voice told her this was a very important question. 

"Our reflection isn't us. Not completely. It lacks dimension, depth. And it is distorted. You know all this. Shinzon wasn't you."

"Obviously, since he is dead and here I stand." 

She thought that he was thinking the same thing as she. But the "thanks to Data" went unsaid. "I'm glad you're still standing here."

He nodded tersely and turned away as if he was going to walk back into his bathroom.

"Don't," she said softly. 

When he turned back to her, a tortured look on his face, she realized that she would offer this man anything if it would only ease the pain he was feeling.

"I'm trying to get at the truth," he finally said.

"Get at it another way." She moved toward him, took his hand, and pulled him gently out toward the living area. 

He followed for a bit, then pulled back. "It's too bright there."

"I'll dim the lights."

"That won't help." He jerked his hand from hers and turned back to the bathroom.

"You need to talk about this."

"I need to be alone," he countered.

"I'll send Deanna."

He seemed to consider that. "Yes, send her. She understands."

Beverly looked away, trying to beat down the hurt she felt. "Will you talk to her, if I send her?"

He gave her an odd look, then shrugged. "Maybe she needs to talk?"

"Well, the two of you can work it out," Beverly said, feeling adrift. She had never been this unsure of how to reach him. "I'm here for you, Jean-Luc. If you need me."

His voice was all business. "I appreciate that, Doctor." Then he turned away. "You can see yourself out?"

To his unseeing back, she nodded. Then she fled. 

She had nearly reached her quarters when she finally stopped. "Computer, location of Counselor Troi."

"Counselor Troi is in mess hall A."

Beverly found her in a back booth, sitting by herself. A large chocolate sundae was untouched. "Deanna? I would have expected to find you in Ten-Forward."

"There is no Ten-Forward." Deanna's voice was as disinterested as Picard's had been.

Beverly cringed as she realized her mistake. "Sorry. Of course there isn't." She had taken in the damage assessments but had not considered what some of them meant. She was suddenly very glad Guinan was not on board.

"Are you here for a reason, Beverly?" It wasn't like Deanna to be like this. 

Beverly slid into the booth across from her. "He's not gone, is he?"

Deanna didn't ask who she meant. She just shook her head. "He may never be gone."

That's what Jean-Luc meant, Beverly realized. That's why Deanna is an acceptable visitor, and I'm not. His interactions with Shinzon had left Jean-Luc reeling, and Deanna—the only other person that Shinzon had hurt on such a personal level—was in a position to understand the pain he was feeling. With a sigh, like she had so many times before, Beverly cut off her need to be with Jean-Luc, ruthlessly shoving it back into the far reaches of her mind and focusing on the problem her two friends were having. "You need to talk to the Captain," she finally said. "He's hurting too."

Deanna looked up, her brow strained, then it relaxed. "I know. His emotions are so—" she cut herself off, the privacy of her patient being paramount, Beverly supposed.

She could not stifle a pang of jealousy that Deanna knew what Jean-Luc was feeling. Beverly couldn't even tell if he was feeling anything.

"So you'll help him?"

Deanna shrugged. "I'll talk to him. I'll listen to him. Sometimes that's the same thing." She looked down at her sundae, seemed to shudder in distaste. "I used to like chocolate." 

Beverly had never heard her sound so lost. "Deanna. If you need to talk..."

Deanna reached across the table, took her hand and squeezed it gently. "Thanks." She stared hard at Beverly, then smiled sadly. "He does love you. Just give him time."

Beverly laughed bitterly. "How much time? I've given him a lot already."

"Look at me and Will," Deanna said. It would have cheered Beverly up if there hadn't been such naked despair in her friend's voice.

Deanna pushed herself out of the booth. "I'll go to him now. I'll try to help him."

Beverly watched her leave. She looked around the mess hall, studying the faces of the few people that were in it at this odd hour. Some of them looked shell-shocked after what happened. Others seemed to mirror what she felt, relief that the battle was over, and confusion over what was going on with their friends.

"I loved Data, too," Beverly whispered, even though she knew that his death had less to do with this than some other darker blow that had been dealt to Jean-Luc and Deanna.

"Need some company?"

She looked up to see Geordi. He had a bandage on his hand. "What happened?"

"Had to rescue Spot. She didn't make it easy."

"I guess not." She smiled at Geordi. "And yes, I could use some company."

He smiled gently. "Me too. I just don't want to be alone." He looked down at his hand. "Or with a grieving cat."

She smiled. "She'll get over it."

"I guess we all will. In time."

As she nodded slowly, she hoped that he was right.


	3. Minimum Safe Distance

She was dreaming again. About Shinzon. Riker could always tell. There was a different tone to Deanna's cries, a certain desperate quality to the sound that accompanied the thrashing as she tried to escape a tormenter long gone. After two months of this, Riker had learned not to wake her up. It did her no good, and he hated to see her close down as she tried to keep the subject of her nightmares from him. He didn't like to think that there was something that could come between them this way, something she simply refused to discuss with him. And maybe it would get better on its own? The dreams were getting less frequent, and seemingly less fierce. The shadows under her eyes were finally fading, and the smiles she gave him in the morning were real. But the sex... 

He shied away from that topic, ignored the stab of pain in his gut—both an emotional response and a physical one. He wanted her, needed her. And he hadn't had her since that bastard had died, apparently taking Deanna's ability to make love to Riker with him. 

"Why?" Riker whispered, not for the first time. "Why can't you love me?" It sounded pathetic to him so he pushed himself out of bed. He'd go to the bridge and sit an extra shift. Or catch up on work. Or wander the halls. Anything but lie in this bed with a woman that no longer needed him, no longer wanted him. 

He stepped into the shower, already touching, holding, rubbing—there were other ways to get rid of the need, of the longing. This wasn't anywhere near as satisfying as losing himself in Deanna's warm body would have been. But it was effective in the short-term, helped turn the resentment down a notch. He heard a noise at the door and turned quickly, dropping his hands. But it was too late. She'd seen and was staring at him now with a strange look on her face. Then she turned and walked out of the bathroom. 

"Damn," he said, then wondered why he was the one that should feel bad. He knew she was hurting, but he was also paying for Shinzon's brutality toward her. He was trying to be patient and not push her. He only wanted her to feel better, find a way to reclaim the vivacious woman he married. But she wouldn't see a counselor and there was little he could do to make her open up to someone else when she wouldn't even talk to him anymore. He felt familiar anger come over him, disappointment in what was his life, irritation that he wasn't a different sort of man—the kind that could go elsewhere for what he needed. But he wasn't and he didn't. Deanna was his life. He wanted her, not some other warm body that would provide a temporary shelter for his wounded pride and pent-up lust. 

He sighed and turned off the shower. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around himself as he walked out to the bed. He used to walk around the room naked. Used to sleep naked. Deanna had taught him to be free with his body, back when he was the prudish one and she the hedonist. Ironic that now he covered up because she didn't like to look at him, would not look at him. There were days he wanted to grab her and—

And be just like Shinzon, the better part of him whispered to the hurt man. You'd be just like Shinzon. 

God, it was even more ironic that this was the area of their marriage that should break down. Sex had never been a problem for them. They were so compatible, so in sync in that department that it had made it difficult over the years to walk away from each other when other things broke down. There had been times during their early days on the _Enterprise_ when they had come together for the comfort of familiar sex, their bodies joining as if there hadn't been months between the last time they'd touched. He knew what moved her; she knew what he liked. When they had made love, everything was perfect. It was later, when they'd tried to talk, or even reconnect as a couple, that things had broken down. But the sex had always been great, perfect, mind blowing. He looked down at her lying with her back to him in their now cold bed. Sex with an empath was mind blowing until some psychopath took that all away. 

"Deanna." 

She didn't turn, didn't look at him. He realized her shoulders were shaking, that she was crying. He sighed. 

"I'm not going to say I'm sorry that I do that. I'm just sorry you saw." 

She didn't say anything. The satin gown she wore shivered as she continued to cry. He was suddenly distracted by the way it clung to her, the light fabric accentuating the curve of her back. He forced himself back to the present. All he wanted to do was touch her, hold her, make her feel better. But when he held her, she acted as if he was suffocating her. Even the lightest grasp had been unwelcome after Shinzon's attack on her and Riker had learned to keep his distance, even though it was not in his nature to maintain such a gap between him and his partner. He was a tactile man by nature, he loved to touch and to be touched. He adored the way her skin felt as she wrapped herself around him after sex, the warmth of it, the slight sheen of sweat that covered her. He liked to let his hands run over her curves, to push her down and explore every inch of her body. He loved the way her hair felt as it slid over him when she kissed him, as it covered his stomach, his legs as she explored his body in return. 

A sudden moan from Deanna brought him back to the much colder present. God, he'd been broadcasting just then everything he shouldn't. Everything she didn't want to know. "I'm sorry," he said, sorry not for wanting her but for hurting her. He was turning away to get dressed when he heard her whisper something. "What?" When she didn't repeat whatever she'd said, he turned away again. 

He heard a rustle, a slip of satin sliding against the less silky sheets. He turned back to her and saw that she had rolled over, was watching him, misery clear in her expression, in the set of her shoulders. 

"Is it me?" she whispered, and he realized by the tone that it was what she must have said a moment earlier. 

"Well, it sure as hell isn't me," he said, immediately regretting the words and his tone as she visibly flinched. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "I'm sorry." 

"You keep saying that." Her voice was dead, dull. The voice of a human, not a betazoid. 

She was half human. It was so easy to forget that. So easy to get lost in her black eyes and luscious ways and only see the lovely strangeness of her. But she was human. And she was hurting. 

He sat down on the bed, trying to make sure the towel did not gape, did not show her something she'd rather not see. He hated the way having to hide himself from her made him feel. 

Again she moaned, a low, miserable sound. 

He looked away. "You had a nightmare. Again." 

She didn't say he was wrong. 

"I know what they're about. I know you won't talk to anyone about them, but I know. I've always known." 

"And yet..." Her lips were set in a grim line, they looked thin and tight. Nothing generous about them. Nothing kind or loving. 

"I'm only human, Deanna." 

She huffed, a soft sound of bitter mocking. He hated that sound; it recaptured every bad moment the two of them had ever had. And he knew she realized that and it was probably why she made the sound. 

He felt anger and something else, a sort of recklessness fill him. They hadn't talked about this; he'd respected her need to suffer in silence, to deal with this herself. But he was sick of it. He was sick of being shut out of his own life, his own bed, away from the woman he loved more than anyone. His imzadi—a word he hated now because it meant nothing except denial and emptiness and coldness. 

He heard her moan again and the frustration he felt at causing her pain, at the pain he was feeling inside, made him explode. "God damn it, Deanna. I've tried to be patient. No, I've been patient. I've been more patient than I thought possible. But I'm not a saint. I'm sorry you saw that just now. But the old you wouldn't have run away. The old you would have stepped into that shower and shown me a better way." 

He expected her to withdraw, to shrink from him. Or to get angry and tell him what she thought of his need. But her expression became puzzled instead. Where he expected to see emptiness, he saw only confusion. It stopped his rant dead. He stared at her, unsure what to say next. 

She sat up slowly, wiping her eyes. "What do you think I was dreaming of, Will?" 

He looked away. "The same thing you've dreamt of for weeks. Shinzon. His attack. The way it made you feel. About you, about me, about us. The way you don't want me anymore." A new rant started, he could feel the pain welling inside him, begging to be let out. "The way you can lie in this bed and not want me to touch you, not want me to even need you. The way you seem to wish you slept in this bed alone, without me, as if we'd never loved." His voice trailed off on the last, until it was barely a whisper. Then he looked up at her finally, met her eyes. "I want you so much it's killing me." 

She frowned and seemed to be looking inside herself, as if examining something. Then she refocused, her gaze no longer quite as confused. "I didn't understand." 

"You didn't want to understand." 

Her smile was gently mocking, but he got the feeling it was directed at both of them not just at him. "I wasn't dreaming of Shinzon, Will. I haven't dreamt of him in a while." 

It was his turn to frown. "I don't und—"

"No. That's the problem. We both think we understand each other, but we don't." She edged closer. "You never touch me anymore." 

"You don't want me to touch you anymore." 

She slid closer, the satin rustling against the sheets made it hard for him to think. "How do you know that?" 

He fought down the anger that was threatening. He didn't want to hurt her. But she was smiling and that confused him and he exploded again. "You made it pretty damn clear, Deanna. I can tell when you want me to touch you and when you don't. I can see your body respond to me, and I can see when it shrivels every time I get near. I'm not stupid." 

"No," she said, as she touched his hand. "Just hurt. Deeply hurt." 

She let her hand settle over his where it lay on the bed; the feel of her skin on his after so long was overwhelming. He had to look away but he couldn't make himself pull away from a touch that felt so good. 

"I'm sorry. I did push you away at first. I had to. I had to get some distance from Shinzon, and I couldn't do that if I was too close to you. But, Will, Shinzon has been gone for two months. And so have you." 

He slowly looked over at her. What was she saying? He felt hope surge through him. She smiled sadly, gently. Tenderly. God, he hadn't seen that look in so long, hadn't seen her eyes light up that way, her mouth curl seductively that way for an eternity. 

"I wasn't dreaming of Shinzon—I was dreaming of you." She looked up at him and he saw the old lost expression come over her. 

And he recognized it finally for what it was. Disappointment, rejection, fear that she was losing him. He'd seen it so often on his own face, how could he not have realized what it meant when she wore it? "You thought I didn't want you?" 

She nodded. "I could feel that you wanted sex. But you wouldn't touch me and you didn't come near me. And when I tried to come near you, you seemed to get mad." 

He remember those times she'd made overtures to him, appeared to be trying to seduce him. The effort had seemed half-hearted, forced. As if she'd been afraid she'd lose him if she didn't make love, but also as if she hadn't really wanted to do it at all. He'd pushed her away, unwilling to accept sex offered out of pity or fear, afraid that if he ever felt that empty he really would leave her, leave her alone when she needed him to be strong. Regret filled him. 

"No, Will. The fault lies with both of us. We felt so much and we talked so little. And we made such terribly wrong assumptions about what we were feeling for each other." 

"You love me?" He felt stupid for needing to ask, but she was right. He had a list of assumptions, built over the last five months that were apparently wrong. He needed to go back to square one. "You want me?" 

She was crying but she laughed through her tears, reaching out for him as she nodded. "I want you, Will Riker. I want you to make love to me. I want you to hold me the way you used to, when I knew you loved me and when being with you was the safest place I would ever find. I want you to be my friend again. I want you to love me again." 

He pulled her to him. "I've never stopped loving you, Deanna. I never could." He felt his own eyes fill, blinked to clear them but didn't mind if she saw that he was moved, that his life could end at this moment and he would never be more sure of how he felt, of who he wanted to spend forever with. "Imzadi," he whispered, the word suddenly new and beautiful now that he believed in it again. 

He slipped the gown from her body and felt her arms tighten around him. She pulled the towel from his lap with a laugh and fell back onto the sheets, drawing him down with her. Her body was warm and welcoming, a temple, a homecoming, a place he'd honestly thought he'd never find again. Their movements were fevered as their bodies bucked and thrust and tried to recover five months of absence in the space of a moment. But there was tenderness in their kisses, in the way he could not keep his hands from stroking her face, her hair, her arms. In the way she kept her eyes locked with his after so many months of avoiding his gaze. In the way they lay together afterwards, nestled securely against each other, arms locked around bodies even now drowsy with sleep, as if afraid to let go for fear that all would be lost again. 

"I'm sorry," he said into the silence. "I shouldn't have assumed." 

"Shhh. I'm the empath; I should have been able to sort out what I was getting from you." 

He sighed, tightened his hold on her. "We were both too hurt." 

She nodded. "And too afraid." She pulled away slightly, so she could look up at him. "After all these years, we really don't know each other very well, do we?" 

He shook his head sadly. Then he felt a grin steal across his face. "At least we know that growing old won't be boring." 

She smiled too. "No. It won't be that." Her expression became more serious. "I love you, Will Riker. I have always loved you and I will love you until the day I die." Tears welled up in her eyes and she let them fall unheeded onto the pillow. "Promise me that we won't do this again. We won't not talk, and we won't pull away without trying to fight for what we have." 

"I promise," he said as he wiped the tears from her cheeks. "You promise, too." 

"I promise." She smiled. "From this day forward, to have and to hold. I never thought about the words before. Having's the easy part." 

He nodded. "It's holding on that's tricky." He kissed her and felt his body urging him to do more. "I want you." It felt good to say that again, to tell her that. 

"I'm yours, Will." She seemed to sense he needed more than that, that he needed her to be the one that started it, that controlled it, that needed it. "I want you too," she said, as she moved on top of him, rode him as he stared at her, caught up in her beauty, in his love for her, in his feeling of destiny finally achieved. He didn't try to be quiet as he lost himself in the feelings she was provoking. She wasn't quiet either. 

As he held her close he felt a surge of satisfaction. They were together. They would stay together. No raving psychopath could take that away. But they almost had thrown it away—they had almost destroyed it all by themselves. It was a good thing to remember, that they were more deadly to each other than any enemy could be. If they ever again forgot how to love. 

"We won't forget," she said sleepily and he wondered when empathy had turned into telepathy. He decided he didn't care. As long as she was in his arms, she could read his thoughts all she wanted. 

"I love you," he said as he pulled her closer, felt the familiar sense of rightness, of safety that holding her always gave him and welcomed it back. She was his home, his port in the storms that life seemed to always be inflicting on them. He loved her. Forever. From this day forward. Until the end of time. 

He heard her exhale sharply, but this time the sound wasn't mocking, it was the little sound of touched amusement she made when she felt what he felt and liked it, was moved by it. "I love you," she said softly, then he felt her body relax against his as sleep claimed her. 

He held her the rest of the night, keeping watch, touching her softly, loving her. She didn't have any nightmares.


End file.
